


Unfinished Business

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Night Manager (TV), The Night Manager - Jean Le Carré
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, basically all the unresolved things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 02:21:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6885268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accustomed to itchy feet, Mel likes to move around every few years, and working in the hotel business makes that easy. But what happens when the man she agreed to forget is unforgettable?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfinished Business

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my pal @hiddleston81 over on Tumblr.

Mel worked her way through the rooms of the Salisbury Hotel, London, as the late morning light filtered in through the big hallway window. She liked this hotel. It had old world charm. Just enough character to keep guests coming back, with modern amenities that made her life easier.

 

She'd worked in housekeeping most of her life. It wasn't what she'd dreamed of, but it was steady work, and she could work anywhere she wanted. The monotony of housekeeping meant she had plenty of time for her two favourite things: listening to music and writing songs. She always kept a pair of discreet headphones plugged into her ears  as she worked. The music lifted her up out of herself as she folded and swapped linens, plumped pillows and drew curtains.

 

On the opposite side of the corridor, her colleague Frankie shared the load, her pink Mohican bobbing along with her own music.

 

Mel methodically freshened towels and scooped up and tied bin bags. On slow days, like today – not many occupants last night, Tuesdays were traditionally “longer tea break” days – she often glanced into the bin contents for her own amusement. Often the items were commonpace. Condom wrappers, their bright red foil shiny as magpie treasure in the plastic bin liners. Used tea bags along with their slim paper wrappers. Sometimes concert tickets, greeting card envelopes. And occasionally champagne bottle corks and the shiny bottle-neck wrapping winked at her from the depths of the bag.

 

She tied the bag and dumped it in the side basket of her trolley, calling to Frankie that she was moving into the next room. The other woman gave her a silent thumbs up and disappeared into an opposite door.

 

She rapped on the door a few times as was customary. Only once in her housekeeping career had she come upon a guest who hadn’t heard the knocks. Two guests, actually. With good reason for missing her knock. She always knocked _loud_ these days.

 

Mel had transferred to the Salisbury a year ago. Her last posting, at the Mandarin Oriental in Paris, had been enjoyable  and memorable – in many ways – but Mel got itchy feet easily. She wanted to see the world, and the only way to do that on a housekeeping worker’s salary was to change jobs whenever she got antsy.

 

She entered the room, leaving her trolley by the door. The bed was unmade, as usual. The room smelled enticing – of clean, fresh soap and just a hint of allspice. She stopped in her tracks, meeting her own surprised expression in the mirror on the far side of the room. She’d smelled that heady combination before.

 

The shower was running. The loud rush of water came from the ajar door of the bathroom. Thin plumes of steam rose from the crack into the room. Mel stood still, feeling her heart flutter nervously in her chest.

 

She should go.

 

The shower shut off. She glanced behind her at the door to the hallway. To outside, and safety. She commanded her feet to move. They stayed rooted to the spot.

 

In the bathroom, someone tugged a towel off the hook on the bathroom door. The slab of wood moved incrementally. Mel took a deep breath as the door opened.

 

The last man she’d slept with stood in the doorway, a large white towel slung over his waist. Beads of water clung to his chest. His short hair, the colour of sun-ripened wheat with a tendency to curl, was damp. She knew how it felt between her fingers and her palms itched.

 

Jonathan's blue eyes met hers, the colour of the Pacific ocean on a clear day. The colour of sapphires she couldn’t resist in jewellery store windows.

 

“Housekeeping,” she squeaked.

 

A muscle in his cheek moved as they regarded each other. The late morning sunlight filtered in through the hotel window, the rays of sun stroking along his lean form.

 

Mel’s stomach lurched.

 

Why was he here? Did he work here? Was he on holiday? Was there _someone else_ in the bathroom? Even though they’d agreed  to keep their arrangement casual, the thought of him touching someone else as he’d touched her made her stomach curl in on itself. Her throat closed and she swallowed, willing him to say something.

 

“Mel.” He raked a hand through his hair, tumbling it.

 

She remembered the days when they’d first met. When his polite Britishness had demanded he call her _Miss Melanie._

 

She supposed that getting naked with someone bred informality.

 

Mel slipped the headphones down her neck. “Sorry. I knocked.”

 

He smiled slightly,  and her gaze was drawn both to his mouth and the day-old beard around the line of his jaw. The line of scruff gave him an edge of dark, dangerous. Made her think about what he could do with his hands. And his mouth.

 

“My fault.” His British accent was as smooth and deep as she remembered. Had it really been a year since they’d seen each other? Since they’d spoken? “I slept late. Tonight’s my first night shift here.”

 

Now her stomach really did bottom out. She felt like an uninformed idiot, standing there in her housekeeping uniform, not four feet from the last man to be inside her. Not knowing that he’d been asleep here all last night.

 

“I had no idea you were working here.” His gaze stayed on hers, steady, and she believed him. “Even if I had…”

 

“We agreed not to keep in touch,” Mel finished, lifting her chin. It was okay. She could do this. She could keep her gaze on his face and not think about his body and all the things it had done to her. Not think about the words he’d whispered into her neck as the moon rose on their tangled bodies.

 

Did he know about all the half-songs she’d written about him? About _them?_

No. How could he?

 

“It’s cool,” she added.  “Just business, right?”

 

His azure gaze lingered on her face for a long moment before he half turned away, walking to the bed to grab a moss green t-shirt. “Of course.”

 

She had the strange sensation that the balance of the power in the room shifted, marginally, as he pulled the shirt over his head. The material stuck to the places on his chest where water lingered, dark patches blooming in the green fabric.

 

“My new place isn’t ready yet,” he said, his back still half to her. The towel on his hips shifted and he pulled the knot a little tighter. “It seemed simpler to sleep here.”

 

“You don’t owe me any explanations, Jonathan.”

 

He turned to face her, and the look in his eyes spoke volumes. Since she’d moved on, a chasm had opened between them – one of their own choosing, admittedly, and the million unsaid words and thoughts and _feelings_ bounding around in the room fell into it now, into the deep void, never to be recovered.

 

She started for the door.


End file.
